


still i come back to you

by rizcriz



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: 4x13 dumbfuckery never happened, Angst, Fluff, Jealousy, M/M, Pining, Quentin's in therapy, eliot and alice are friends, eliots literally so dumb, talking about feelings, two people obviously in love but too dumb to do anything about it
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-02
Updated: 2019-10-02
Packaged: 2020-11-22 06:01:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,984
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20869355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rizcriz/pseuds/rizcriz
Summary: He’s able to sit up for the first time on a Thursday. Has been weaving in and out of consciousness for the better half of a week. Flanked by Margo on his left, Quentin on his right, and a revolving door of characters at his feet. Visitors who come and go and sometimes come back. Like Penny and Alice and Julia. Or who come once, stay for a few minutes, and then disappear to never return. Like Dean Fogg and Kady. Nothing more than courtesy drop by.He doesn’t mind. Quentin squeezes his hand tight like he thinks he might, though, so he just nuzzles his cheek into Quentin’s shoulder and opts not to mention that he has all he needs right here. Pretends not to hear Margo’s judgement when she huffs out an amused breath. Squeezes her hand as if to say not now, Bambi.They’re alive. They have time. Right now he just wants to stay like this.--Or, the season 4 finale never happened, but Quentin and Eliot still manage to be disasters. Mostly Eliot.





	still i come back to you

**Author's Note:**

> I promise there's a happy ending.

————————————

**I**

————————————  
  
  


Eliot wakes up on a Monday. His hand is warm, skin buzzing, and as soon as he blinks the world into focus, there’s a familiar mop of brown hair leaning over him. A strong smell of cider and books and rain fills him up, and a sleep drunk smile forces its way out over his lips as a thumb brushes over the back of his hand. The warmth travels up, as a large hand cups his cheek, and a relieved, minty breath fans out over him. 

Sleepily, he leans into the touch.  _ “Quentin.”  _

“Shh,” Quentin breathes. “Sleep, El. You need your energy.” 

His eyes close of their own accord, hand turning upwards so he can wrap it around Quentins. And then he does as he’s told, because for once they’ll both still be here when he wakes up.

  
  


————————————

He’s able to sit up for the first time on a Thursday. Has been weaving in and out of consciousness for the better half of a week. Flanked by Margo on his left, Quentin on his right, and a revolving door of characters at his feet. Visitors who come and go and sometimes come back. Like Penny and Alice and Julia. Or who come once, stay for a few minutes, and then disappear to never return. Like Dean Fogg and Kady. Nothing more than courtesy drop by. 

He doesn’t mind. Quentin squeezes his hand tight like he thinks he might, though, so he just nuzzles his cheek into Quentin’s shoulder and opts not to mention that he has all he needs right here. Pretends not to hear Margo’s judgement when she huffs out an amused breath. Squeezes her hand as if to say  _ not now, Bambi. _

They’re alive. They have time. Right now he just wants to stay like this. 

  
  


————————————

He goes on his first real walk three weeks after waking up. His weight is unsteady on his legs, and he reluctantly leans heavily on the cane Margo procured. But Quentin’s standing by his side, walking with him. One of his hands is settled on the base of Eliot’s spine—a surprising warmth of strength of hope as he helps Eliot down the front walkway. His other hand is gently wrapped around Eliot’s upper arm. Just as warm. Just as strong. 

He should be frustrated with how hard it is to get his body back to where it was before getting axed. But Quentin’s a comforting presence, and when the frustration does manage to seep out, he lets Eliot sit down, and they talk about nothing. The weather. The birds chirping in the trees. Nothing about Eliot’s injury. Nothing about how hard this is. They just sit here on the bench, while Eliot catches his breath, and Quentin rambles nonsensically about weather patterns and migration habits of Blue Jays. 

His thumb strokes along the pulse point at the bend of Eliot's arm. Eliots not even sure he realizes he’s doing it. But he lets his eyes close, and gets lost in the feeling of being here, alive, with him. Let’s the feeling wash over him like a gentle wave. Lets Quentin talk the frustration away. 

A year ago he’d have snapped at Quentin for so much as suggesting to help him. Three years ago, he’d have gotten drunk and pretended everything was fine while everyone secretly worried about him behind his back.

Now?

Now the brush of Quentin’s thumb on his skin, and the sound of Quentin’s listless rambling are all it takes for the irritation and anger to dissipate into the breeze. 

He takes a deep breath. “All right,” he says, wincing as he straightens out his shoulders and looks at Quentin. “I think I’m ready to keep going.”

“You sure?”

_ As long as you’re with me, I don’t think I’ll ever be unsure of anything again.  _ He offers a halfhearted smirk and holds his hand out for him. “I’m sure.” It’s carefully clipped. Hides everything that he’s not sure how to say just yet.  _ Maybe later, _ he thinks. When he doesn’t need to rely on Quentin just to walk.

Quentin doesn’t notice, or if he does, he shows no indication. He just nods and helps Eliot up, a rambling presence at his side as they make their way down the walkway. 

As far as searingly painful walks that tug on his every nerve like little bungee cords of fire and agony go, Eliot thinks things could be a lot worse. 

————————————

It’s a week later that Eliot overhears, “Hey — uh, can you go on the walk with Eliot today?” From his place in his sick bed. “Madison made plans and I—” 

“Ugh,  _ go. _ I need some time with my boo anyways.” 

“Thank you.” There's an anxious flutter in his voice, and then a hesitant, quiet — so quiet, Eliot has to strain to hear, “Do you, uh, think the blue shirt? Or the red shirt would—” 

Their voices are closer, right outside the door, when Margo replies with, “Blue. Blue is your color. Don’t you dare wear the red shirt.” It’s almost amusing, the threat in her voice. But there’s something there, at the back of Eliot's mind that's not as amused, like a version of himself running at him screaming —  _ RED ALERT. RED ALERT.  _

“Thank you. I’ll see you guys after.” The door opens, then, and Quentin peaks in, hair freshly brushed. He’s so pretty, Eliot thinks, even when he’s not like this. All freshly showered and cleaned up. Even when his hairs all greasy, and he’s got bags under his eyes. He’s the prettiest person Eliot knows. Not that he’d ever tell Margo as much. But, like this, he’s even prettier. Eyes are so bright and — 

Wait. Why  _ is _ he freshly showered and all cleaned up? 

He smiles at Eliot, “Margo’s going with you today. But,” he pauses, biting down on his lip, “just — don’t forget to push yourself.”

It’s the mantra. For when he thinks he can’t go any further. One more step after that point. It’s worked. Every day he gets further from the Penthouse. Though, that probably has more to do with the look of pride that’s practically glowing in Quentin’s gaze every time Eliot, trembling and sweating and near on the verge of tears because it feels like fire washing through his veins the longer he strains, takes that last step. 

Margo pushes the door open and Quentin stumbles aside, making a face as she moves into the room and crosses her arms over her stomach. She gives him a look, before rolling her eyes and turning towards Eliot. “Have fun. Tell Madison I say hi.” 

Quentin grins at her back as she takes a seat on the edge of Eliot’s bed. Eliot looks between them, from Margo to Quentin and back, until, “Will do. Love you.” His gaze darts to Eliot, before flashing back over to Margo. 

And then he’s out the door, and Margo’s calling, “You, too!" After him, sounding mildly amused. She shakes her head, and turns to look at Eliot. The amusement in her eyes dies a quick death, and she waves a perfectly manicured hand in Eliot’s general direction. “ . . . what’s happening with your face right now?”

Eliot blinks, then looks back towards the door. Quentin hasn’t run off that excitedly since — 

He jerks his gaze back to Margo and, almost afraid of the answer, asks, “What the fuck is a Madison and why does Quentin have one?”

“Oh.” She rolls her eyes and waves her hand about lazily like it’s no big deal. “Just someone Q’s been hanging around with. They have group therapy together.” 

“Right.” Quentin’s been going twice a week since Eliot woke up, that makes sense. But. “He asked for  _ fashion advice.”  _

Margo makes a face, and this is entering dangerous territory when she sweeps her gaze over him. And then she shrugs and stands up, settling her hands on her hips.“It might be a first date, it’s whatever. You ready for that walk?” 

That voice in his head that’s been screaming  _ RED ALERT  _ suddenly doesn’t feel so far away. His heart pounds in his chest, crashing up against his rib cage as he looks past Margo towards the door. Half wishing he could get up and run after Quentin to tell him  _ wait, no, you can’t date someone else.  _ He swallows that down, though, and darts his eyes back up to Margo, nodding. 

“A walk sounds great.” 

Anything sounds better than thinking about the woman potentially taking Quentin away from him.

  
  


————————————

There’s a reason it’s usually Quentin who comes with him. The walk gets cut short when he stumbles and snaps at Margo when she tries to help him upright. They’re back in the cottage before he can apologize, and Margo doesn’t talk to him for the rest of the night. 

And when Quentin gets back home — late, clothes disheveled, and beaming brighter than Eliot even knows what to do with, Eliot pretends to be asleep on the couch. Sleep seems easier than finding out just how pretty Quentin’s girlfriend is. Easier than looking him over for lipstick marks or stray hairs or any hint as to who she is. Easier than listening to Quentin talk about how great his — his  _ date _ was. Easier than admitting he might be jealous.

Might be may be too loose of a term. 

There’s a wistful sigh above him, and then a gentle hand in his hair that it takes all his willpower to keep from leaning into, and Quentin says, soft, like he doesn’t think anyone’s going to hear him, “Sweet dreams, El.”

It almost sounds like a habit. Like it’s something he does every night. And Eliot kind of wishes he weren't so tired all the time, just so he could find out.

But then Quentin pulls away, and Eliot listens as he takes the path to his room, the sound of his shoes on the hardwood fading the further from the living room he gets.

It almost feels like a metaphor. For what, Eliot isn’t sure. 

_ It’s his chance to say something fading away. _

He thinks it. But he shoves the thought and side, and only vaguely wishes he could drown the fear and confusion in a bottle of scotch and a bag of the junkiest chips he can find. Instead, he pulls his blanket in tighter against himself, and wills sleep to come quick. 

  
  


————————————

Madison comes to the penthouse for the first time on a Saturday. They’ve ordered piles and piles of takeout, and Eliot’s sitting in his chosen spot on the couch, a plate of kung pao chicken in his lap, and a bowl of noodles in his hands. He’s suckling down a long noodle when he hears the door open over the quiet music and conversation between his not quite not friends, and looks up just in time to see Quentin walk in, hand in hand with a pretty blonde man. 

A man so pretty he could be a movie star, to be exact. Eliot sucks the noodle into his mouth and sits up straight, tilting his head. 

Quentin waves awkwardly, but it doesn’t look like anyone but Eliot’s paying them any mind. “Uh—this is, uh—“ his arm tenses like he’s squeezing the man's hand, and then it goes lax like a comforting responding squeeze eases the nerves. “This is Madison.” Which,  _ What? “ _ We’re. Kind of. Seeing each other.”

Eliot snaps his gaze from Quentin to— _ Madison. _

Madison who is not a woman.

Madison, the man.

Manly Madison.

Fuck.

“Hi,” Madison says. His voice is smooth, gentle on the ears. 

Eliot hates it.

The others wave noncommittally, Kady muttering about how she doesn’t understand how Quentin has so many hot people falling all over him, and Quentin leads Madison — Madison who is not the petite brunette that’s implanted herself in Eliot's imagination the past few weeks, because he is a muscular, blonde,  _ man— _ to the kitchen, presumably to get them both plates for their dinner. 

Eliot leans over as much as he can with his mostly healed abdomen, and looks at Margo pointedly until she sighs and turns her attention on him instead of her egg roll. “ . . . Madison. Is a man?” He whispers the question, like maybe, if he’s quiet, it won’t be true. 

Margo makes a face. “Yeah?” She replies like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “What else would he be? A talking bear?” 

Eliot blinks and then sits back up.  _ No, but he’d certainly take a talking bear. Or a woman. _

Somehow the idea of Quentin seeing a woman hurt less. But that could be the, as Quentin calls it, internalized biphobia rearing it’s ugly head. He squashes the thought and quietly returns to his noodles, suddenly finding them soggy and uninteresting, but still easier to focus on than Quentin and  _ Madison _ when they return with their own plates of food. 

  
  


————————————

The walks aren’t as necessary anymore. The cane’s barely more than the walking equivalent of training wheels— a safety precaution that it feels harder to let go of out of habit rather than a lifeline. There’s still pain, and it helps keep him up when it gets to be too much, but he finally feels a difference. 

Still, it’s three days later that he finds himself on another walk with Quentin, their arms intertwined at the elbows. The first time they’ve  _ actually _ been alone in weeks. No Margo or Julia or Penny or Madison. Just the two of them, which is probably why, when they pass the third hipster coffee shop on the second block of the walk, he says, “So.  _ Madison.” _

He’s not subtle. But Quentin, bless his heart, doesn’t seem to catch on.

“Yeah,” he says with a dreamy little smile. “He’s great, right?” 

Eliot's jaw clenches and he looks away, shrugging. “ . . . Sure.” 

Quentin’s pace stutters, but he doesn’t stop as he asks, “Why the hesitance?” 

Eliot shrugs, “He just wasn’t what I expected.” 

“What  _ were _ you expecting?” He sounds so confused. Like a child that can’t understand why someone wouldn’t like their favorite candy. 

And, because he’s made a vow with himself not to lie about anything important to Quentin— besides the obvious thing that could ruin everything, he says, “With a name like Madison? For one, a  _ woman.” _

He hears the hitch of Quentin’s breath. His arm squeezes around Eliots, and Eliot knows what’s coming before Quentin even pulls away. “Is it because his names Madison,” he starts, moving around to stop in front of Eliot, eyebrows furrowed in that way they do when he’s angry and confused and trying to make sense of it all. He looks up at Eliot, tilting his head. “Or because you still think I’m straight and I just. Have a hankering for dick every once in a fucking blue moon?” 

Eliot looks down at his arm. It’s cold, without the warmth of Quentin’s wrapped around it.

“I didn’t say that,” he says.

“You didn’t  _ need _ to.” He moves like he’s going to start walking again, but then he’s whirling around, and furiously glaring up at Eliot. “I like girls.  _ And _ I like guys.” He points a shaking finger. “And the fact that you still  _ — still! —  _ after a fucking  _ lifetime _ together, and all this shit we’ve gone through, refuse to acknowledge that —” He breaks off, rolling his fingers into a fist and taking a deep breath. 

Eliot takes the moment as the opportunity it is. “I  _ did _ assume,” he says, “but his name is  _ Madison, _ Q.” 

“It’s a unisex name!” 

“I’m  _ sorry _ I assumed.” He moves in and reaches out to grab one of Quentin’s hands. He half expects to grasp at empty air, but Quentin lets him take it, an angry pout furrowing his lips and brows. “I really  _ am _ working on not being shitty.” 

“Could have fooled me.” 

He nods and looks down at their hands. In another life, this was them. Hands intertwined when there wasn’t a tile in them, or a toddler, or, any of the Fillorian fruits they picked for sunday dinner. They’ve had this argument before. In a different tone, with a different backdrop; but then it’d been masquerading as them trying to pretend they didn’t love one another. 

He shouldn’t be surprised that it’s just him pretending not to love Quentin. He always knew he’d one day push too far, and it happened, and it sucks. 

But it’s his own fault. So, he looks back up, and offers one of his patented self deprecating smiles, and says, “Being accidentally shitty is kind of my trademark, here, Q.” Quentin doesn’t look amused, still frowning in that effusively disappointed way he does, and Eliot sighs. “I’m sorry. I’ll try harder.” 

Quentin looks away, up and into the distance. And then his pretty brown eyes are darting up, and flashing beneath his absurdly long eyelashes, and Eliot finds himself willing to give the world and more if Quentin would just ask. “You’re my best friend.” 

In another life, he’d said,  _ I think you might be my soulmate. _

Eliot replies, “You’re mine, too. Well,” he makes a face, “you and Margo.” 

In another life, he’d laughed and replied,  _ you’re just saying that because we’re out here all alone. And I give you an unlimited supply of orgasms. _

“Can you . . . at least. Try? With Madison?” 

And Quentin had said,  _ it’s okay if it scares you. It scares me, too. _

Because this is the world where Eliot’s ruined things beyond repair, he shoves down his own feelings for the same and opposite reason all at once, and says, “Of course.” 

But in that other life, he’d pulled Quentin into him, wrapping his arms around him and pressing a kiss to the top of his head, before saying,  _ nothing scares you, Q.  _

There’s a relieved little smile as Quentin moves to stand next to him again. He pulls his hand out from Eliot’s and wraps their arms back up in each other. “Thank you.”

They start walking again, and all Eliot can think about is that night under the stars that never happened. Of Quentin falling asleep with his head pressed up against the junction of Eliot’s shoulder and neck, his hand a warm, comforting weight on Eliot’s chest, their fingers laced together. And that guilty little thought he’d had back then, that somehow still resonates here and now. He’d been too afraid to admit it out loud out of fear of losing Quentin, then. 

_ I think you might be my soulmate, too.  _

It’s strange how, even now, he can’t say it for the same reason.

It’s the same and yet it’s so _ different. _

  
  


————————————

Madison becomes a staple in their lives. When they go out to see a movie on their dedicated no magic nights, while Eliot’s on Quentin’s right,  _ he’s _ sitting on Quentin’s left, their hands laced together. When they go out for dinner, Quentin sits on the inside of the booth, and Madison takes Eliot’s place next to him. They don’t show off about it, but when Eliot takes the seat across from them, Margo and Julia sliding in next to him, he sees the slant of their arms, and knows they’re holding hands under the table. 

When Eliot gets a checkup, Madison tags along with the group and sits with Quentin in the waiting room. 

The worst part is he’s  _ nice. _ And he cares about Quentin. He notices when Quentin’s slipping and he jumps in to help him catch his breath and calm down before Eliot’s weak, feeble body even manages to twitch to get up. 

He makes Quentin laugh. And smile.

And even  _ Penny  _ likes him.

  
  


————————————

They don’t realize he’s in the kitchen one Friday night. They crash through the front door, laughing and shushing one another. Eliots hand clenches around the mug on the island counter, and when he hears the distinct, wet sounds of kissing, he wishes he’d turned the fucking light on instead of feeling his way around for things he’d memorized the location of weeks ago. 

Then Quentin  _ moans. _

And a thousand fucking memories of that life Eliot wishes he could let go of flit across his mind. 

He sees their silhouettes as they pass through the living room and head towards the staircase, illuminated by the moonlight shining in through the windows. Quentin’s tugging Madison along by the hand. They stop just shy of the staircase, and Madison pulls Quentin into him, surprising a little, nervous laugh out of him. But then Quentin tilts his head back to look up at him, and they share this  _ moment. _ Even from where Eliot's standing in the dark, he can tell that they’re in their own little world, where maybe even time has slowed down. Where even a couple seconds feels like an eternity.

_ It’s so easy to lose time when looking in Quentin’s eyes,  _ Eliot can’t help but think. 

Madison ducks his head, brings his right hand up, and cups Quentin’s jaw as he kisses him.

In Fillory, they never had stairs. But when Quentin pulls away and leads Madison up the staircase, it feels achingly like the times Quentin pulled Eliot into the tree line and pushed him up against a tree. Deliriously happy as he leaned up on his toes and pressed a kiss to Eliot's lips. The only difference is Madison doesn’t know how to hold him—a firm grasp on the back of the neck, and Quentin’s putty in his hands. Instead, he’s cupping his jaw like he’s worried he needs to be careful. There’s a lot of yellow tape around Quentin’s life; but not  _ here.  _ Here he likes to know he’s wanted. Here,  _ careful _ can be misconstrued. Here, he wants every touch to be sure and meaningful. For the touch to dig into his veins and show him he matters. That he’s  _ loved.  _

Madison’s touch lacks everything Quentin needs.

But that doesn’t stop Quentin from melting into the kiss. And Eliot has to face that maybe he doesn’t know Quentin as deeply as he thinks. Maybe what he thinks Quentin needs is really what  _ he _ needs. 

He waits until he hears the thump of a body against Quentin’s bedroom door, and then he limps his way over to the sink and pours his tea out. His hands clench down on the edge of the sink as something clunks on the floor above him. A shoe, maybe. 

Shaking out his hands, careful to ignore the way they’re trembling, he casts a silencing spell on the living room and heads to the couch. 

  
  


————————————

Madison’s playing cards with Julia, while Quentin sits on the balcony and stares out at the city. Eliot’s tempted to to follow him out, take some much needed one on one time. But when Quentin glances over his shoulder at Madison, eyebrows bunched together, shoulder tilting upwards like a shield between them, Eliot figures he knows better.

Because he knows that look.

The quiet, confused contemplation.

Eliot knows what it  _ means. _

Quentin heaves in a stuttering breath, his chest shaking with it, before dropping his gaze to the ground and turning back around.

Eliot watches him for a moment longer, unable to tear his eyes away. It feels like a century since the last time he’d been allowed to just  _ look _ . Quentin’s hair has started growing out again, but it’s clean and washed. Clothes are also freshly washed. He looks healthy. And, Eliot glances around the room, to anyone who doesn’t know better, genuinely happy. 

————————————

Once Eliot’s able to  _ really _ get around on his own, only needing the cane for long distances and threatening his friends, they have a picnic in the park a few blocks away. He figures they’ve realized he’s sick of sticking to his two block radius, and the first floor of the penthouse.

It’s a cool, Tuesday morning, the sun shining down on them where they sit at the table in the park. The ice creams probably melted. Sandwiches are all half eaten. Fruit forgotten and sitting in a pool of warm juice. Julia, Kady, Penny and Alice are off playing  _ frisbee _ of all things.

Quentin and Madison are sitting on the opposite side of the picnic table, tangled up in each other, as they have been for the past two months. Whispering sweet nothings that Eliot's grateful he can’t hear. He picks at the remaining crust of his bread, and throws it down on the napkin. On his left, Margo elbows him—not too hard, probably afraid of causing damage, and sending him back to his sick bed. “El,” she says quietly, leaning in so close her breath fans out over his ear. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

Quentin laughs at something Madison says, and the familiar, stupid fucking pang from when they had their whole deal with Alice rears it’s ugly head; an icy pinprick to the center of his chest. Back then he’d been too afraid to call it jealousy. Now, he’s not so much afraid as just wishing for it to  _ go away. _

If Quentin really is as happy as he looks, the last thin Eliot wants to do is destroy that. 

He shakes his head. “It’s nothing.” 

She scoffs, “If you keep sitting there scowling, we’re never going to have a good day. Tell me what the deal is.” 

He shakes his head again and looks out over the park. Penny trips trying to catch the frisbee and it almost  _ — almost —  _ makes him laugh. Margo elbows him again and he sighs, flicking his gaze down to the torn up remnants of his lunch. “ . . . You’ll think I’m a terrible person.” He says. 

She scoffs, and then she’s grabbing him by the arm and carefully dragging him away from the others. She crosses her arms, and looks at him expectantly. When he doesn’t speak, she says, “Honey. I’ve seen you at your worst.  _ Try me.” _

He blinks down at her, ducking his head to look across the lawn at Quentin just in time to catch him laugh, loud and boisterous and  _ real. _ He jerks his attention away as Madison reaches up to brushes Quentin’s hair out of his face, something seedy and angry whirling around in his stomach. He looks at Margo, and takes a deep breath, nausea ebbing and weaning. “I,” he pauses, and then forces the words out, gaze catching on the tree behind her, because he can’t bear to see the inevitable judgment on her face, “I love him.” 

“Who?” 

He inhales shakily, and says it out loud for the first time since he told a sleeping infant in the time that technically isn’t real. So, out loud for the first time ever. No sweat. “Q. Quentin. I,” Shrugging, he finally turns to look at her. She’s got one eyebrow perked, not-quite-confusion dancing in her eyes. He’s not surprised, she’s probably known longer than he has. Unless he counts the fifty years he’s got on her, which of course he doesn’t. Except he maybe kind of does. If only to keep from erasing what they had there. “Am in love with him.” 

_ “Great _ time to realize that, El.” 

He could tell her it’s not a new revelation. He  _ should _ tell her. Instead, “Isn’t it just?” 

She heaves a breath and moves to lean up against the tree behind her. “What are you going to do?” 

He laughs, a hollow sound, more as a stalling tactic than anything. “There’s nothing I  _ can  _ do.” She raises her eyebrows, and he sighs. It’s better to just get it all out. “He wanted to be a thing.  _ Us. _ After we got our memories back from our life in the quest,” at this, her eyes widen a fraction. So, finally something she’s surprised by. Any other situation he’d call it a victory. “I told him no, and that I . . . wouldn’t choose him. I told him his feelings weren’t real and I made us pretend the whole thing never happened.”

Her mouth falls open, and for a moment he thinks she’s going to slap him. But she says, soft and maybe nearly as broken as Quentin had said  _ okay _ that day,  _ “El.” _

He kind of wonders if the idea of him breaking Quentin’s heart breaks hers. It breaks his. And they  _ are _ two parts of one whole. 

He just nods and moves to lean up against the tree next to her. He doesn’t speak for a long minute, squinting and staring up at the cloudless sky. “It. Gets worse.” She doesn’t turn to look at him, but she does reach out to weave her fingers through his. “When I was trapped in my head, I — I had to confront that. And all I wanted was a chance to fix things. But by the time I was finally in any kind of state to even  _ think  _ about broaching the subject, he — found Madison.” A lump forms in his throat, and he swallows it down, letting his head fall back to lightly thump against the tree. The bark scratches his scalp, but he can’t find it in himself to care. “Logically, I know it’s my fault. But I can’t help . . .  _ hating _ him a little.”

There it is. The little nugget of a reminder of just how terrible of a person he is. Out in the open. Drifting. Waiting for the disgust it deserves. 

Margo finally twists to look at him, face pinched up in his peripheral.  _ “You _ hate  _ Q?” _

He shakes his head. “No. God, no.  _ Madison.  _ For having the chance to love Q,” he pauses. Works the next words over his tongue, before finally muttering, “And for not being good enough.”

Margo takes a beat to formulate a reply. Her voice cracks when she says, “He makes him  _ happy,  _ El.” 

Eliot nods. And then, eyebrows furrowing, shakes his head and looks up at the branches overhead. “Maybe.” 

“No, not  _ maybe,” _ she rips her hand out from his and moves to stand in front of him. She doesn’t say anything until he forces himself to twist his neck down so he can look at her. “Q was in bad shape for a long time.”

He’s well aware. He’d made Alice and Julia sit with him and tell him exactly what went down while he was possessed. A mental down spiral, a near suicide. Complete disregard for his own well-being. Fucking  _ fugue states. _ The only reason anyone managed to realize something was wrong is because Penny  _ — of all fucking people —  _ realized he was planning on  _ killing himself _ . And not even  _ realized _ . He’d accidentally read Quentin’s mind because it turns out when you’re about to do the last thing you’re ever going to do, your wards stop being a priority.

“Look,” he senses a big,  _ you’re a fucking idiot  _ speech. And he deserves it. Doesn’t even brace himself for it. “El, I love you. You know I do. But. It’s been a long while since Q’s felt like  _ Q. _ Don’t try and get in the way of that.” 

And he gets that.  _ Really, _ he does.

But. Nobody knows Quentin the way he does. Cares about him the way he does. Understands his every quirk and tick. Nobody knows what they’re seeing when Quentin’s sitting on the couch, quiet and alone, in the early mornings. This past year pretty much makes that as clear as fucking day. But Eliot  _ does  _ know him _ .  _ He wouldn’t have let him spiral, because he’d have seen it happening. It’s something that comes with a lifetime together. The quiet understanding of another person. He knows Quentin better than he knows himself. 

Which is why he  _ knows _ .

“You don’t see it,” he says, “When Quentin thinks nobodies looking—” 

“I don’t  _ care.” _ She interrupts, glaring at him in a way he hasn’t experienced in almost as long as he’s known her. Unless he was endangering his own life. “Do  _ not  _ ruin this for him, Eliot. Or there will be hell to fucking pay.” She raises her eyebrows pointedly, and then adds, softer, “And I’m not talking about from  _ me.  _ Quentin will never forgive you if you fuck this up for him.” 

————————————

It’s a few weeks later when he’s given the all clear. There are still phantom pains that shoot up his spine and leave him frozen in agony, but it’s nothing he can’t handle. And it’s certainly not something he’s going to mention; Margo already feels bad enough about how long it’s taken him to recover. He still uses the cane, but mostly for longer walks and for when he’s cooking.

But there’s something wonderful about the all clear. Wonderful and terrible and dangerous: they have a party. 

With booze and music and — did he mention _ the booze?  _ As in, he’s actually allowed to have his first sip of alcohol — and then some — for the first time in more than a year? 

. . . the monsters time in his body notwithstanding.

He’s stationed at the island with all the various bottles Margo and Penny managed to steal from the liquor store down the street. For every drink he makes, he has two. When Quentin pulls Madison up to the island and tells him, “Eliot makes drinks for people based on their personality. He’s a  _ professional _ . Without the, you know, professional part of being a professional. Uh . . .” 

Madison just chuckles and looks at Eliot. “He’s halfway to wasted.” He says it like he needs to explain Quentin’s behavior. As if Eliot doesn’t already fucking  _ know.  _

Eliot forces himself to smile, and turns his attention on the drink counter. Makes himself a shot of tequila and downs it. And then he plays the ever so kind host and makes Madison a mixed drink. 

He hands him the long island iced tea with an empty smile, and pretends not to notice Alice raising an eyebrow at him. Madison tilts his head down at the drink, but before he can remark on it, Eliot grabs his cane — a little too wobbly on his feet to go without it right now — and rounds the counter. He’s not sure who invited  _ Todd _ but he waves an arm, “Todd!  _ There  _ you are!” Glancing over his shoulder, he shrugs helplessly at them, “Bartenders taking a dance break. Enjoy.”

He looks back across the room at Todd, who’s staring at him wide eyed, and he sighs. Shoulders slumping forward, he grabs Julia’s untouched tumbler of whiskey off the side table and makes his way across the room, downing the drink in one go.

He’s not drunk enough to spend time with Todd yet. 

But he’s too drunk to play nice with Madison. 

————————————

It’s nearly two am when Eliot stumbles across the room and stands next to Quentin at the counter. Quentin’s sobered up a bit, hasn't had a drink in a few hours, and he’s leaning over the counter with his forearms pressed into the granite while he watches over all their drunken friends. 

He glances up when Eliot settles at his side, but turns his attention out on the living room again. 

Eliot watches him. Dizzy with how beautiful he is. His hair’s a little wild, and his favorite hoodie disappeared somewhere a few hours ago, so his arms are on full display in the wrinkly white t shirt he’s wearing. Eliot swears they’ve gained definition—or have they always been so defined? 

He finds himself overwhelmed with how much he wants those arms wrapped around him. 

“Hey,” he says, knocking his shoulder against Quentin’s, “give me a hug.”

Quentin looks up at him from beneath his long, long eyelashes, and Eliot practically feels the lifetime of butterfly kisses those eyelashes brushed against his cheekbones. The corners of his mouth quirk up, too, a gorgeous little fond smile. Eliot remembers this smile being exclusively reserved for when he was being ridiculous. “You’re wasted.”

Rolling his eyes, Eliot leans down over the counter too, pleasantly surprised when pain doesn’t send him recoiling back to full attention. “That’s what you’re supposed to be at a party, Coldwater.” A thick strand of Quentin’s hair falls forward when he snorts out a laugh, and Eliot can’t help but to clumsily push all his weight into one arm so he can reach out and brush Quentin’s hair behind his ear. Quentin freezes, but doesn’t stop him, his gaze locked on Eliot's hand as it brushes up against his cheek. “Why’re you being a loner?”  _ Why are you so beautiful? _

“I’m not.”

Eliot blinks blearily, realizes he’s still  _ touching  _ him, and drops his hand back to the counter. He looks out over the party; it’s mostly died down. Todd’s passed out on the couch, Margo’s over him casting a spell Eliot can’t identify from his place at the island. Alice and Kady are also asleep, propped up by each other on the other sofa. And Penny and Julia are playing a drinking game at the coffee table, laughing loudly over the music when Penny loses the round. “You’re standing alone in the dark,” he says, twisting his neck around to look at Quentin again. His breath catches in his throat when he finds Quentin already watching him. “The,” he swallows, “definition of loner.”

“But I’m  _ not  _ alone.”

“Didn’t Madison go home hours ago?”

Quentin rolls his eyes and looks away. “I was talking about  _ you,  _ Eliot.” 

“Awe,” Eliot coos, leaning over and pressing his cheek into Quentin’s arm, “you  _ love _ me.” Quentin swallows, and Eliot’s eyes drop down to watch the movement of his Adam’s apple. It bobs up and down and then up again, and Eliot wants to  _ lick _ it.

But Quentin’s hand comes up before the thought can evolve into action and he tangles his fingers in Eliot’s loose curls, nails scratching comfortingly at his scalp. “You are so far gone,” he notes, softly, as he scratches. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you, like. Comfortably drunk before.” 

Eliot tilts his head back to look up at him. “You’ve seen me drunk more than you’ve seen me sober.”

“Yeah but, not.” He shrugs, “not like this.”

Eliot shakes his head, nuzzling into the side of Quentin’s chest, his chin tucking into the space between his arm and the wall of his chest. “You have,” he says, voice muffled as his mouth drags along the fabric of his shirt, “but you were too drunk to remember.”

“That must be it,” Quentin replies. Eliot doesn’t even need to look up to tell he’s smiling; can hear it in the curve of his voice. He can practically feel it in the comforting touch of Quentin’s hand in his hair. “Let’s get you to bed.” 

Eliot lifts his head and looks up at him through half lidded eyes, “don’t make offers you can’t keep.” 

“You’re not funny.”

Eliot nods, a little laugh bubbling up and out of his chest. “But I  _ am _ pretty.” He rolls his neck so just his chin is pressing into the muscle of Quentin’s bicep, and smiles up at him. 

Quentin watches him, his brow furrowed, and a warmth builds up in Eliots stomach, flowing out through his veins. _It’s so easy_ _like this._ Quentin’s eyes are just as brown and wide and full of the universe as they are in Eliots dream memories of the past. It almost — _almost — _feels like the end of a long day working on the mosaic, and curling up with each other on their quilt to stare up at the stars. Only, Quentin’s eyes are the stars and Eliot — Eliot is very, very drunk.

On the liquor. On  _ Quentin. _

The look in his eyes.

“You’re _ okay,” _ Quentin finally replies, voice crackling on the last word. 

Eliot rolls his eyes and dips his chin so he can nuzzle back into the warmth of Quentin’s chest.  _ “I’m _ not afraid to say  _ you’re  _ pretty.”

Quentin huffs out a breath of air and pulls back, wrapping his arms around the bend of Eliots left arm. “Come on, El. Let’s get you to bed before you say something stupid.”

“Me? Say something stupid?” Eliot scoffs, but lets himself be lead towards the stairs. “Who do you think I am?  _ Todd?”  _

_ “ _ I’d  _ never _ make that mistake.”

He pretends not to hear the sarcasm in Quentin’s voice, and just leans into him. Warm and content and the happiest he’s been since — since  _ Madison. _

————————————

Quentin’s birthday is on a Wednesday. The sun’s shining, the birds are chirping, and everyone who even slightly knows him is in the penthouse, drinking mojitos, eating Josh’s surprisingly delicious brunch, and telling their favorite Quentin stories. 

Eliot’s sitting next to Quentin on the couch, watching him. Because while everyone else is laughing and dancing and overall pretending they’re not traumatized by the past few years, he’s sitting quietly, obliging them with fake laughter and smiles. Eliot  _ knows _ it’s fake because his eyes crinkle  _ too  _ much on the laugh, and he looks away, eyes darting up to the ceiling along the way. 

He also knows it’s fake because while Eliot’s taking up Quentin’s left side — Julia’s sitting on his right.

And fucking  _ Madison  _ is nowhere to be seen.

Quentin claims he couldn’t get out of work and that it doesn’t bother him. But when Julia gets up, and everyone else stops putting all their attention on him, he nuzzles into Eliot’s side and settles his head on his shoulder. An arm comes up and around Eliot’s waist, warm and gentle, squeezing. 

Eliot brings his own arm up to rest over the back of the couch and loop it over Quentin’s shoulders. “You okay?” He asks, as quietly as he can so none of the others catch on.

Quentin curls in closer to him, forehead dipping to burn fiery hot on Eliot’s collar bone. “It’s just a lot.” 

“Want me to tell everyone to go home?”

“No, I don’t wanna ruin their fun.” 

Eliot shakes his head. “Q, it’s  _ your  _ birthday. It’s the one day of the year nobodies going to give you shit for being anti-social.” 

“I’m not anti-social.” His tone is nothing short of petulant. Eliot clicks his tongue, and pulls back just enough to raise an eyebrow at him. Quentin huffs. “It’s just  _ weird _ having — having almost everyone all,” he pulls his hand away from Eliot’s waist, and Eliot almost lurches to follow the warmth as he waves the hand around nonsensically, “you  _ know. _ Focusing on me.” 

“Is that really the issue?”

“What else could it be?”

His voice is muffled against the fabric of Eliots vest, vibrating through his ribs and settling in Eliots stomach. “I mean. Your  _ boyfriend  _ ditched at the last—“

“He didn’t  _ ditch.”  _

“Q.”

He lifts his head and frowns up at him.“Don’t  _ Q  _ me.” 

“I’m just saying you’re allowed to be upset.” Shrugging a shoulder, Eliot adds, “It’s shitty of him to miss your birthday.” 

Quentin stares at him for a beat, before completely unraveling himself, and standing up. He looks down at Eliot again before shaking his head and making his way to the kitchen without another word. Eliot watches after him, and glances to the side at Julia. She raises an eyebrow at him, then shakes her head and turns her attention back on the drink in her hand.

————————————

“You know everyone can see you hate Madison, right?” Alice asks him, later, when they’re doing the dishes together and everyone else is watching the Lion King in the living room. He glances over his shoulder, heart slamming against his rib cage, before realizing that they probably can’t hear her over the running of the water, or the sound of the movie blaring around them.

He turns back and slams his hand into the water in search of another plate to rinse. “I don’t  _ hate _ Madison,” he mutters spitefully, wrapping his hand around a bowl and pulling it to the surface. He swipes his sponge over the inside, scrubbing at a particularly stubborn speck of dirt. 

Alice sets her hands on the edge of the counter and levels him with a look that he refuses to acknowledge. “Is that why you’re trying to murder the bowl?” 

“I’m not.” 

“Right. And you don’t hate Madison.”

“Exactly.” 

She doesn’t say anything until he gives up on the bowl and holds it out for her. When she reaches up to take it from him, he looks up, and she asks, “Why didn’t you tell him?” 

“Because I don’t —” 

“Not that,” she says, flicking her hair over her shoulder and picking up her towel to dry the bowl. She rolls it between her hands, carefully drying it so she doesn’t drop it. “When you woke up. Why didn’t you tell him you’re in love with him?” She asks it like it’s just as fucking casual as asking him to pass the bowl, or to help her do the dishes. Like it doesn’t completely freeze his world, and then spider web through his heart. 

“What?” He asks, a little breathless. He leans against the counter, and reaches into the sink for another dish, heart pounding. 

She huffs out a breath and sets the bowl on the clean towel and turns so her hip is pressed up against the counter. “He thought you might, you know.” He catches the raise of her eyebrows when he glances at her from the corner of his eye. “He came to talk to me the day after you woke up. He told me he didn’t want to hurt anyone this time, and that he wanted to put everything out in the open. Told me about peaches and plums and a life and your  _ child.”  _

His fingers graze against a plate, but he just swipes past it and pulls back to grab at the edge of the sink. Water drips over the side of the counter, a small little tsunami of dirty dish water wetting the front of his shirt and dripping down onto the toes of his socks. “He told you all that?” He asks without looking up, trapping his gaze on the surface of the water where the soap suds drift carelessly. 

“He also told me about you rejecting him.” 

He nods, squeezing his eyes shut. 

“Do you remember the first day you were awake?” 

“Not really.” 

“I do.” He hopes his eyes and looks up at her as she turns back to the sink and motions for him to grab a plate. When he doesn’t move, she leans over and plunges her hand into the water and grabs a plate and the sponge that’s floating on the surface. She focuses on it as she adds, “Mostly because Quentin finally woke up, too.” 

“Alice—” 

She looks up at him, her eyes sharp. “We didn’t even recognize him before. But then, we walked into your hospital room, and it was like everything that kept him locked up in on himself melted away. He sat at your bedside, took your hand, and didn’t move for three days.” She looks back down at the plate. “He actually spent  _ hours  _ talking to you or reading or ranting about Fillory while you slept.” 

Eliot remembers waking up a few times and finding Quentin at his side — can’t recall a single moment Quentin wasn’t there when he was awake. But he hadn’t realized that he never left. It hadn’t even crossed his mind. 

“He didn’t start going to therapy until his big breakdown. And even then that wasn’t even for him, Eliot.” She turns her gaze back on him and drops the charade of caring about the dishes, and the sponge. Water splashes out of the sink and onto her pretty black dress, but she doesn’t seem to care — doesn’t even flinch. “He wanted to be there for you. He got help so he could be.” 

“Why are you telling me this?” 

She lets out a little gust of air and leans against the counter. “Because we expected you to do something. We expected you to make some big, grandiose love declaration.” 

“I was  _ waiting. _ Until I got better. So that — ” 

“You weren’t the only one  _ waiting.” _ She snaps. “Q was waiting for you to tell him you felt how he feels. And you didn’t.” She pushes away from the counter and takes a step closer to him. “You didn’t tell him. And he took his therapists’ advice and moved on.” 

Without really meaning to, he takes a step back. He swallows down the nervousness fluttering in his stomach. “The point, Alice, please get to it.” He doesn’t need a complete rehash of the story he’s lived through the past few months. 

She looks away, towards the island counter top, and then back, flicking her hair back over her shoulder again. “You don’t get to hate Madison,” she says. “That’s not your right. You broke Quentin’s heart, and if that was out of fear, fine. But then you refused to find the courage to put your own on the line. Quentin deserves love that doesn’t hurt him, and if you’re too much of a coward to give it to him, let him be happy with someone who _ isn’t.” _

“I  _ was  _ going to tell him.” 

“But you didn’t.” 

“Because he found —” He realizes he’s raising his voice, and leans in, hissing,  _ “Because he found Madison. _ I didn’t want to fucking ruin it when I saw him coming in smiling. Even though it  _ killed _ me to watch him falling for someone else.” He turns back to the sink, clutching the edge of the counter again to stabilize himself. He feels he’s trembling all over, though it’s probably just the nerves. 

“You could have told him before it got to that point.” 

He shakes his head. “No. No, I _ couldn’t.  _ He would have thought it was just because he was with Madison.” 

“You underestimate him.” She shrugs. “We all do, I think. He’s fragile, but he’s — he’s  _ not.”  _ She looks down at the sink, her hair falling between them like a curtain. “Being afraid of hurting him is always what ends up hurting him.” She flicks her hair again and looks at him as the cascade of platinum settles on her shoulder. 

“I don’t know why you’re telling me this. I’ve been civil.” 

“Because,” She turns and reaches into the sink, plucking the plug from the bottom of it and setting it beside the spout. “I know I’m not the only one who sees it.” 

He watches the twist of the water as it swirls down the drain before looking up at her and asking, “Sees  _ what?”  _

“That he’s happy.” She turns her back on him and wipes her hands on the hand towel beside the clean dishes. “But that he could be happier.” She stops, looking down at the floor and sets the towel aside. “You don’t  _ need  _ to hate Madison.” 

And then she walks out of the kitchen like she hasn’t just dropped a fucking kamikaze on Eliot’s head. He contemplates letting it end there, but, fuck, no, and rushes across the kitchen, grabbing her by the wrist to pull her back. She raises her eyebrows at him, only tugging a little to get out of his grip.

“I think you know better—“ she says.

He shakes his head and pulls her back towards the sink out of view of the others. “I don’t get why you’re telling  _ me _ this. Last I checked  _ you  _ love him, too.”

She blinks up at him owlishly, tilting her head like she thinks he’s an idiot. “But  _ he _ isn’t in love with  _ me.”  _ Her face pinches, nose wrinkling as she adjusts her glasses with her free hand. “And he and I— we were never good. At loving one another that way. But you two, you bring out the best of each other. When you’re not bringing out the worst.”

“But he’s  _ with Madison.” _

She blinks again. “When has him being in a relationship stopped you before?” He drops her wrist like he’s been burned and takes a step back. She sighs, “I’m not trying to be a bitch. I’m just saying. He deserves to be happy.” 

“And he  _ is.” _

“If you think that, then I guess we have nothing left to discuss.” 

This time, when she leaves the kitchen, he lets her go.

————————————

He lets it stew in his mind for a few days. 

Watches Quentin and Madison interact. How Quentin’s smile falls the smallest fraction when nobodies looking. 

He’s said he thinks he can make Quentin happy. At least,  _ happier  _ than Madison who doesn’t know anything about Quentin or even a fraction of the history he and Eliot have shared. But. He’s still the same man that sat in front of their thrones. Still the man that broke both their hearts because he thought Quentin deserved better than him. 

He’s still _ Eliot Waugh.  _

And if there’s one thing Eliot Waugh’s good at — it’s ruining things. 

And. Hurting Quentin. 

No amount of time in the happy place or recovering or hoping is going to change that. 

————————————

Except.

————————————

He finds Quentin a few weeks after his birthday in his bedroom, the door open, while he moves around the room in what looks like an attempt to clean it. Eliot leans against the door frame with a little smile and crosses his arms over his chest. Quentin runs a hand through his hair — it’s still growing. Not quite as long as it was to cover his face, but almost long enough for him to put it back in the bun.

Long enough for Margo to force him down on the floor in front of her on the couch a month ago, and french braid it for him. And, long enough that ever since that first time, he seeks her out and sits down in front ofher, with his back facing her, and asks her to french braid it for him. It’s so common now that she doesn’t even stop talking to whoever she’s talking to — she just rolls her eyes, leans forward, and starts brushing his hair with her fingers before braiding it. 

Eliot’s a little surprised it’s not braided right now, actually. 

Quentin looks up and jumps like a frightened cat when he finds Eliot standing there watching him.

Then, like fucking  _ magic, _ that stressed little furrow between his eyes vanishes, and the prettiest, crinkliest smile takes it’s place. Eliot’s pretty sure the room actually gets  _ brighter. _ “Hey,” he says, tucking his hands in his back pockets. 

“Hey,” Eliot says, mildly awestruck. He shoves away from the doorframe, and swallows. Nervousness creeps up his spine, and he doesn’t realize why, until Quentin knocks his head to the side to brush his hair out of eyes, and oh — oh, god, he’s not afraid of this. Of the idea of being the one to brush Quentin’s hair aside so he doesn’t risk permanent brain damage. Of being faced with this stupid, puppy dog, sunshine bright smile every morning and every night. “— can we talk?” He doesn’t even realize he’s said anything, so caught on the curve of Quentin’s smile, until it’s drifting in the air between them.

The nervousness crackles in the air around Eliot’s body, standing the hair on the back of his neck on end. 

Quentin glances around the room, nose wrinkling, as he asks, “Now?” 

Eliot nods, taking a step further into the room, heart thumping as Quentin mimics the movement. “. . . it’s kind of important.” 

“Okay,” Quentin nods, pulling his right hand from a pocket and tucking his hair behind his ear again as he takes another step. “Yeah. I’m just — Madison and I are going out tonight so I—“ he breaks off, frowning, “Are you okay? Is it the—” 

Eliot swallows down a lump in his throat and shakes his head, stepping in as well. “No, I’m fine.” 

“Okay. Good. Uhm. That’s good. Then . . . ?” 

The words come tumbling out like they’ve been waiting for this moment since before he woke up: “I love you.” 

Quentin shrugs, and they meet in the middle of the room as he smiles up at him. “I love you, too?” 

Shaking his head, Eliot looks away, out the window. The blinds are open for once, and he almost gets distracted, before turning back to Quentin. “No,” he says, quietly, “I — I mean.” He swallows and looks down between them. At Quentins hands fidgeting, at how they’re so close and yet too far. “I mean _ I love you.”  _ And then adds, because he knows no other words will make as much sense,  _ “ _ I  _ choose  _ you.” 

He closes his eyes. Waits, counting the seconds in his head before Quentin responds.

_ One . . . Two . . . Three . . .  _

He’s on sixteen when Quentin cracks the silence with a quiet, little, “  _ . . . what?” _ It’s barely more than a word on an exhale. Like Quentin has to force out a breath and the word just attaches itself to it. 

Eliot opens his eyes and looks at him. His eyebrows are furrowed like he’s too lost to make sense, so Eliot reaches down and out for one of Quentin’s hands.“Proof of concept isn’t bullshit, Q. It—” 

Quentin yanks his hand away and takes a step back. “You’re  _ not  _ doing this right now.” 

“I know the timing isn't great, but I—” 

Scoffing, Quentin shakes his head. “Timing’s not —” He shakes his head again and turns around in a small circle, rushing his hands through his hair before looking up at Eliot. His lips form a thin line, and he points at the ground when he says,  _ “Tell me you’re not doing this.”  _

Maybe he’s delirious. Maybe he’s hopeful. Either way, Eliot moves back in, eyes burning. “I know I waited too long, and I might be too late but. I could make you a hell of a lot happier than he does. I know I can, I —” And then, he’s leaning down, cupping the sides of Quentin’s face and pressing his lips to Quentin’s. 

But Quentin pulls back almost immediately, stumbling backwards, wide eyed. “What the  _ fuck  _ are you doing?” 

Ice settles in Eliot’s chest and travels out through his veins. 

He takes another step in, but Quentin backs away again, holding an arm out between them as his eyebrows pinch together. “Q—” 

“No.” Quentin hisses, shaking his head like he can’t quite make sense of anything. “ _ No,  _ I —” He breaks off, and looks to the side, out the window.  _ “jesus christ, _ Eliot. _ ”  _

Eliot nods. He’s done it all wrong — he can see it in Quentin’s eyes, bright and flashing and confused. “I know. I just had —” 

“You —  _ No.”  _ Quentin shakes his head again, and moves around him, pushes past until he can get to the other side of the room. He stands in the doorway for a beat, his chest heaving as he stares at Eliot down. “We’re — no. We’re not doing this.”

And then he walks out.

————————————

He doesn’t come home that night. Or the next. Or the following two nights. 

Eliot goes into his room on the fifth night and finds his dresser open, the drawers emptied. Looks across the room — two pairs of shoes are missing. As is his copy of the first Fillory and Further book. And a small collection of stuff that most people wouldn’t even notice. He wraps his hand around the handle of his cane and closes the door behind him as he turns and heads for the staircase.

He makes it to the main floor, and is just shy of the kitchen when something forces it’s way out of the back of his throat.

“El?” 

Eliot’s legs give out from beneath him, his cane the only thing that keeps him from crashing to the ground, as he slowly falls to his knees. Margo drops her bowl on the counter, the sound ricocheting across the room, as she darts around the counter and rushes at him as he lets go of the cane and slumps forward, something deep and sad and broken uncurling in his chest. 

“Eliot?” Suddenly, she’s kneeling in front of him, grabbing his face with both hands and making him look up at her through a curtain of hair. “Hey, talk to me. What’s happening? Are you okay?” 

He shakes his head and pushes forward to press his forehead into the junction of her shoulder. “I fucked up.  _ I fucked up.” _ His throat tightens, and he brings his lead heavy arms up to wrap around Margo’s waist, as her hands slide up into his hair. He squeezes his eyes shut, tries to will the sting away. The spinning ball building up and uncurling in his chest works it’s way up, seeps into his veins. 

“What’d you do?” 

His spine jerks, and he nearly misses the shocked gasp Margo makes, as a low whine forms in his chest and works its way out of his throat. It tapers off into a hoarse, broken sob, and he squeezes her as the tears force their way out. Another sob shocks, and then two more, wracking them both as Margo brings her arms down to get a better hold on him, her fingers digging into his back.

It’s like everything he’s had bottled up under the surface since they got their memories back, and hell, even before that, is forcing its way out. A fucking volcano exploding in his heart, and the hot, salty tears become magma as they burn their way down his cheeks.

“Shh,” she breathes into his ear, shuffling to her knees so she can pull him in closer. “It’s okay, El. Whatever it is, we’ll figure it out.” 

He shakes his head, clutching her tighter.

He’s not so sure they will. 

He ruined  _ everything _ and Quentin’s gone. 

————————————

Three years ago, Eliot would have pretended to be okay. Today, he’s sitting in Margo’s room, her hand petting through his hair. Completely silent after having told her what he did. After vomiting out all the self hate and fear and  _ I knew I was a bad person’ _ s he’s got building in his veins. After the tears have finally stopped, and all that remains of them are the salt stiff tracks on his cheeks, and the wet spot on the stomach of Margo’s shirt. 

“He’ll come back,” she says, leaning down to press a kiss to the top of his head. “He’ll come back. You’ll apologize. And we can all go back to pretending.”

“You  _ warned  _ me, Bambi.”  _ I was too selfish to listen.  _

She takes a second to reply, a shimmer of hesitance as her fingers still in his hair. “I know,” she murmurs, scratching as his scalp. “But it's you. And it’s Q. There’s no way this is the thing that tears you apart for good.” 

“You didn’t see the look on his face.” 

She hums thoughtfully. “No,” she agrees. “But I have seen you two the past few months. He’ll come back.” Her fingers run through his hair, a comforting ease beneath the bubbling fear and self loathing. “Go to sleep, El,” she says. 

He closes his eyes, and forces himself to focus on the soothing motion of her fingers. Then, miraculously, the world, and everything wrong with it, fades away into the darkness.

————————————

He does come back. At least, that’s what Alice and Julia say. 

Eliot can’t confirm, because he’s barely seen a flash of  _ somebody  _ as he’s exiting his own room, and Quentin’s door shuts, fast and firm. He’d check, but there’s a tell tale click of a lock that tells him he’s not welcome to. 

————————————

Quentin manages to avoid him for nearly two weeks. Nothing more than fleeting glances as Eliot enters a room, or the flash of a flannel disappearing through a doorway. But, on a chilly, Wednesday night, Eliot finds him sitting alone in the Physical Kids cottage. He’s not even sure what brings him to the cottage, other than the horrible guilt and loneliness that keeps him from going to the penthouse after his walk. But he walks through the front door and finds that Quentin’s taken up residence in the center of the only comfortable couch, a mostly empty bottle of Jameson held lazily in his right hand, tipping to the side. If it weren’t nearly empty, it’d be spilling over into Quentin’s lap.

He approaches with caution, but Quentin rolls his eyes, flopping his head back over the couch to look up at the ceiling. His eyes flutter closed, and Eliot takes the moment to look him over. He swallows, feels a little stabbing at the center of his chest that is equal parts pain and pleasure. 

“You found me,” Quentin mutters after a moment, opening his eyes and looking at him without lifting his head much. His chin wrinkles, and if it weren’t for the way his hands suddenly clutching around the neck of the bottle, or how unhappy he looks to see him, Eliot’d be amused. 

“So I did. And  _ you _ found the Jameson.” He takes a step further into the room, frowning as Quentin flinches. “Are . . . you  _ okay?” _

Quentin laughs, sardonic and unamused, which is an answer in and of itself. But his head lolls to the side and he stares out at the bookshelves behind Eliot. “Honestly, El, I just keep trying. To be happy. And I thought Madison and I could be that. He was. Perfect, you know?” 

Eliot blinks, stopping.

_ “Was?”  _

Quentin doesn’t seem to hear him, or if he does, he just completely ignores him, staring vacantly up at the ceiling while his thumb nail scraps at the little plastic bit around the bottle that once held the cap to it. “He cared about me. He let me be me without judgments or doubt. We could have been happy together.” 

_ “Could _ have been?”  _ What the fuck does that even mean?  _

“And then you,” He points across the room lazily, vaugely in Eliot’s direction, hand basically limp as he waves it around, “had to go and fucking give me that speech and I — I couldn’t  _ pretend _ anymore.” 

Eliot can’t help taking a step closer, hope pounding in his chest. “What?” He asks. He feels a little numb, like he’s floating above himself, watching this moment in slow motion.

“Every time I looked at him I was just,” his hand falls, flopping into his lap. “Fucking aware of everything he wasn’t.  _ Who  _ he wasn’t. And it’s not fair. Because he’s,” he whines, “He’s perfect. He’s  _ kind.”  _

Eliot swallows thickly. “I’m sure.” 

“And smart, and — and when I. Told him I had feelings for him, for the first time in basically my entire life he didn’t doubt me. He  _ believed  _ me.” Eliot flinches, guiltily looking down and away. “He  _ wanted  _ me. Even though it scared him.” He pauses, and Eliot looks up to finding him staring directly at him. “And I had to go and let my feelings for you get all tangled up in everything and fucking ruin it.” 

Eliot nods, taking a step forward, a thousand and one apologies caught on his tongue, tangling up in each other, and all that can come out is, “ . . . Q . . .” 

“How  _ could _ you?” Quentin asks, the words slurring but not lacking heat. “How could you decide  _ now  _ was the time to suddenly love me, Eliot? Don’t tell me it’s not fucking sudden, either.” He sits up straight and lets go of the bottle. It wobbles, and then falls into the seam of the couch. “You’ve been back for  _ a year. _ You have had all the goddamn time in the world, and you waited until I was  _ this _ close to being happy.” 

Mouth dry, Eliot says, “You know that’s not true.” Because it is. If Madison hadn’t actually made him happy after all this time, then he wasn’t ever going to. Quentin falls fast, and he falls hard, and he gets lost in it. 

“I could have loved him.” He pauses, eyebrows furrowing as he drops his gaze down to the coffee table. “With time.” 

Eliot takes a step closer. He’s not sure what prompts him to say it, but, he can’t stop himself from replying, “No. You couldn’t.” It’s a whisper. Soft enough, that for a moment, he doesn’t think Quentin even hears him say it. But then, his head jerks up, and those brown eyes are staring up at him, shiny and confused.

“There you go again,” he says, the words cold and univiting of response, “When are you going to fucking  _ listen _ to me when I tell you what I’m feeling?” 

“I  _ am  _ listening.” 

“No.” Quentin falls back against the couch, rubbing his hands over his face. His next words come out muffled, “God, you probably think that I couldn’t love him because he’s a  _ man. _ ” 

Eliot sighs. “Are you going to accuse me of being biphobic again?” 

“Only because you  _ are.”  _ He doesn't even bother lifting his head to look at him this time. 

“You’re drunk.” 

“Maybe,” he shrugs sloppily, “But I — I’m also angry. At you. Because I could have been happy.” 

Eliot gets caught on the  _ past tense  _ of the sentence. “You keep  _ saying  _ that,” he says, frowning, “I still dont know what the fuck it’s supposed to mean.” 

Quentin doesn’t reply for a moment, and Eliot looks up at the ceiling. Wonders what he has to do to fx this. Wonders what steps he has to take, wha the has to say. But then.

“It  _ means,”  _ Quentin starts, “you told me you’re in love with me and I fucking forgot  _ everything  _ else. It means you told me you want to be with me, and suddenly nobody else in the world matters, _ you asshole. _ ” He shuffles on the couch, tangling a hand in his hair and looking up at the ceiling despairingly. “It means I broke up with Madison and I fucking hate how much power you have over me.” His gaze drops back down to Eliot, owlish and angry all at once, “It means, that despite every single one of my best efforts, no matter how hard I fucking fight it, you will always have the power to break my fucking heart. And you’ll use it. I  _ know  _ you will.” 

Eliot’s breath catches. And, sure, he’s a disaster and he’s selfish and he has a habit of hurting people but it’s never fucking  _ intentional. _ He doesn’t  _ want  _ to hurt him. “ . . . That’s not fair.” 

“You saw me happy,” Quentin retorts, dry, “And you  _ ruined  _ it.” 

“No,” Eliot hisses, taking two steps in, suddenly angry that this, this  _ monster  _ version of himself, is how Quentin sees him. “I saw you pretending to be happy and I knew I could  _ actually  _ make you happy.” 

“Don’t pretend to be a savior, Eliot,” Quentin bites, “You’re the single most selfish person I’ve ever met.” 

“Just because I’m  _ selfish  _ doesn’t mean I’m  _ wrong.” _ He crosses his arms and swallows down the lump forming in his throat. “And for the record, I had every intention of talking to you before your pretty boy came waltzing in on  _ our  _ story and tried to take what wasn’t his.” He regrets the phrasing as soon as he says it.

Quentin makes an indignant squawking sound. “I’m not your fucking  _ play thing!” _

Eliot’s eyes close. “I  _ know  _ that.” 

“Do you?” He opens his eyes to see Quentin stand up, swaying on his feet and pointing at him, “Because you only want me when you can’t have me.” He takes two unsteady steps and then stops a few feet in front of Eliot. “I sat there,” His voice is softer now; wet and thick, “in front of our thrones. I  _ told  _ you I wanted you. I wanted a life with you. I took a leap of faith thinking our lives together was enough, but you  _ didn’t want me  _ until you couldn’t have me.” 

Shame soars through Eliot’s heart and he looks down at the ground between them. Quentin’s missing a shoe. He bites down on his bottom lip and rapidly blinks the tears starting to blur his vision away. “I was afraid,” he says. It’s not an explanation, and he knows it. But it’s all he can say. 

“And I wasn’t?” Quentin snaps. “I was fucking  _ petrified.  _ But I wanted to be with you. I wanted us to have that life. I thought you did, too.” 

Eliot looks back up, eyebrows raised and furrowed. “I  _ do.” _

_ “Please,” _ the word is tight with the tears brimming his eyes and the alcohol that’s made his voice rough, “Eliot. You just like the chase. You can’t be content. The minute I make this easy, you’ll just break my heart again.” 

Is that who he really thinks Eliot is? 

“Then why did you break up with him?” He throws his hands out at his sides. “I can’t fucking read minds, Q.” 

“Because you trapped me and you told me _ you’d choose me.”  _ He takes a step in, and Eliot can’t help but take one back, because said like _ this, _ in this tone, it sounds awful. “Because you looked me in the eye and said proof of concept isn’t bullshit, and because when you  _ kissed _ me, you fucking  _ asshole,”  _ He moves in and shoves at Eliot’s chest, it’s barely more than a push, nothing strong enough to actually move him, and then his hands drop back down to his sides. “I felt more alive than I have since before we went on that quest. But mostly because . . .” He looks down, shaking his head. “ I can’t keep  _ hurting people _ trying to avoid falling for you.” 

“Q—” 

“I’m past that point in my life.” He looks back up, the tears finally managing to break free and slip over his lashes. Eliot wants to brush them away, but can’t make himself move. “I’m done hurting people. So, I’ll just hurt myself before I can hurt them. And, you win.” 

Eliot recoils, “What exactly am I  _ winning  _ here?” 

“I’ll be miserable and alone. Just how you like me.” 

“ . . . That’s.” He shakes his head, taking a step in, “Q,  _ no—”  _

Quentin interrupts him. “You won’t have to stand by and watch me with anyone anymore.” 

_ “Stop it.”  _

“And in two weeks,” Quentin barrels on, voice raising to talk over Eliot, “when you realize you were just starving for attention and that you don’t actually love me, we can all move the fuck on.” 

Eliot squeezes his eyes shut, and falls back to where he was standing, arms going limp at his sides. He bites down on his lower lip and opens his eyes again, looking down at Quentin. His vision is swimming, and something warm and wet drips down his cheek, and tickles it’s way down the side his throat.

“I’m  _ not going to realize I’m not in love with you,”  _ He says, throat tight. 

“Please, Eliot,” Quentin rolls his eyes. “You’ve done it _ three times.  _ Twice is a coincidence. Thrice is a pattern. And my therapist said I need to avoid unhealthy patterns.” He points at Eliot as if to say  _ and you, you are my worst unhealthy pattern.  _

Eliot scoffs despite himself. “And being a  _ self sacrificing idiot _ isn’t an  _ unhealthy pattern?”  _

“Better to be the self sacrificing idiot than the idiot that keeps getting hurt.” He brings a hand up and rubs at his temple, shrugging. “Honestly, it’s for the best if I’m alone. Everyone I’ve ever actually loved accused me of not meaning it.” He slides his hand back and into his hair, holding his bangs back. “Of my feelings being fake. Maybe they’re right. Maybe I’m incapable of loving someone. Of being loved by someone.” 

“Don’t say that,” Eliot says, “You are—” 

Quentin holds up the hand not in his hair. “Done with this conversation.” The hand waves a little absent mindedly before falling to his side and he sways on one foot to pivot to the left. “Have a good night, Eliot.” 

“Stop it,” Eliot repeats, closing the distance between them again, and adding, more urgent, “This isn’t what I wanted—” 

“No?” Quentin raises an eyebrow. “What did you think would happen when you decided to sabotage my relationship? You made me a cheater,  _ again.”  _

Eliot balks. “You didn’t—” 

“I know I didn’t kiss you back, that doesn’t change the fact that I felt _ horrible.  _ Why is it that whenever I’m happy you can’t just let me  _ be  _ happy?” He steps back, wiping at his nose with the back of his hand. “I was happy with Alice, and we know what happened there. I was — I was happy with  _ you.”  _ He motions towards Eliot with a raise of his eyebrows and a flippant wave of his hand, “And you didn’t think I could be happy with just you, because you thought there were certain.  _ Things _ you couldn’t give me. So you made me try things with Arielle. And I loved her, I did. But . . . I tried to find that happiness with you again, and you said no. And now —  _ Madison.” _

Eliot thinks back to the Mosaic. Back to the happy place. Every moment he wishes he could have done differently. He was scared, then. In Fillory, and after. Scared of hurting Quentin, scared of putting himself in a place where he could be hurt, too. Scared he wasn’t enough for Quentin, or that he might be too much. 

Confidence is easy to fake for people who don’t care. It’s not easy to fake when his feelings are always bubbling up on the surface desperate to escape, all in front of people who inexplicably  _ do  _ care. 

His eyes slide shut, and he licks his lips.“It’s because I—” 

“I don’t care, Eliot,” Quentin interrupts, “I’m so  _ tired. _ I’m so tired of wanting to be loved.” 

Eliot’s eyes snap open. “You  _ are  _ loved.” So loved it actually _ hurts. _ So fucking loved that his fingers tingle and his heart aches and the worlds darker when he’s not around. So loved that imagining a world without Quentin in it feels like a world that’s better off destroyed. 

“You know. The good thing about therapy is that there are things I can face now.” Quentin looks down at the ground for a moment, shuffling his feet, “And one of those things is that I am loved, but not in the way I  _ deserve  _ to be.” 

Eliot recoils as if he’s been slapped. He swears he can feel the sting of it on his cheeks, but Quentin’s still standing five feet away, lips in a stern line, eyes wet and bloodshot. He takes a step closer to him, “Let me—” 

But Quentin holds a hand up. “Eliot, stop.” 

Shaking his head, Eliot continues, “Not until you le—” 

Quentin laughs, this broken, wet, hollow sound, and the words die in Eliot’s throat. He looks up at the ceiling, and then back to Eliot, nodding to himself. “I’m going to bed.” 

“Q, don’t—” 

Don’t let it end like this.

_ Don’t leave me. Don’t hate me. Don’t go. _

He watches Quentin walk up the stairs, and doesn’t move until he hears the sound of one of the bedroom doors opening and closing with a gentle click barely loud enough to make it down to the living room. He clenches his jaw and takes a deep breath, chin trembling. One hand comes up to cover his mouth, and when he blinks, he feels two warm droplets splash onto his fingers.

He should have known better.

He can’t be happy, and neither can anyone he loves. At least his father was right about  _ something.  _

————————————

The following afternoon, Quentin’s sitting at the counter in the kitchen eating a bowl of cereal. Eliot pauses at the base of the spiral staircase, hesitating before swallowing down his fear, and standing up straight, chin up, and striding past him to the refrigerator. The spoon settles in the bowl noisily, a jerky clank that resounds through the kitchen as Eliot wraps his hand around the handle of the refrigerator. 

He only freezes for a beat, expecting for the spoon to get thrown at his head — or the bowl of cereal itself — but nothing comes, and he yanks the door open and looks over the content inside for something to eat. He’s reaching up, to the back of the topshelf to shove some condiments away in search of leftover lasagna, when he hears Quentin mumble something. 

He freezes again, but Quentin doesn’t say anything, so he takes another breath and continues on his search. He thinks he’s found it in the silver tin foil poking out from behind Alice’s monster ketchup container when he hears;

“I’m sorry.”

He jerks his arm back, abandoning the aluminum foil, and looks over his shoulder at Quentin. He’s watching him, bags as deep as oceans beneath his eyes, hair a greasy mess atop his head. Eyes are wide and sad and it takes all Eliot has not to grab him by the arms and tell him this is isn’t his fault, he doesn’t have anything to apologize for, and  _ jesus, Q, didn’t you fucking sleep at all?  _

“What?” He asks instead, stock still in his place beside the fridge, cold air sweeping over his bare ankles. 

“I’m  _ sorry.”  _ His voice is rough, crackles on the second syllable, and his eyebrows furrow in the way that makes his entire face curl in. Eliot has to tense all his muscles to keep from rushing across the kitchen and bundling him up in his arms to protect him from everything that could possibly make him this upset.

Mostly because he wouldn’t be protecting him from anything, because Eliot’s the cause of it.

He swallows and moves to close the door, taking a step back. Somebody must have spilled something recently, because his feet stick slightly to the ground as he moves away. 

“I don’t know why  _ you’re _ apologizing,” he says, without looking up. Focusing, instead, on a speck of paint on the floor.

“I was drunk,” Quentin mutters, voice trembling, filled with the kind of self repulsion that Eliot’s increasingly familiar with. “I — I said some terrible,  _ terrible  _ things —” 

Eliot shakes his head and looks up at him. Quentin’s mouth snaps shut so fast that Eliot can hear the clack of his teeth crashing together. “I ruined your relationship, Q.  _ Again. _ I think you get a pass.”

“ . . . You didn’t ruin my relationship.” Quentin replies, staring down at his bowl. He swallows loud enough for Eliot to hear over his own raising heartbeat, “I told him you kissed me. And . . . he was.  _ Understanding _ and, and thoughtful. He sat down with me and let me tell him everything that’s happened between us,” he looks back up, then, “and he said he wouldn’t make me choose, but that I had a right to. That I shouldn’t feel I have to be with him because he cares about me. I told him that’s how you and I ended up in the situation we did. Me disregarding my feelings for yours . . .” 

“Q . . .” 

Quentin shakes his head. “He asked me if I was happy with him. Then he asked me if I  _ could be _ happy with you.” 

Eliot’s almost afraid to ask, “What’d you say?” 

“I didn’t.” He smiles one of those fake, half smiles, and rolls his neck before continuing. “He told me he’d back off if I wanted him to. If I thought I could be happier with you than with him, he wouldn’t stop me. And then he got up and walked away.” Pausing, he furrows his eyebrows and looks down at his bowl. “I think he wanted me to stop him.” 

Eliot finally moves away from the fridge and stands beside the island, hope — hope he doesn’t actually  _ deserve —  _ building up in his chest. Warming the chill that settled in his heart the night before. “But you didn’t.” 

Quentin shakes his head once without looking up. “I didn’t.” 

Eliot’s breath hitches and he reaches out to grab onto the edge of the counter to hold himself upright. “ . . . Where do we go from here?” He asks.

“I . . . have no idea.” 

“Is it too soon to ask you to dinner?” 

“Yeah,” Quentin says, a phantom of a laugh following it, “I think it is.” 

_It's okay,_ Eliot thinks, nodding in agreement, they can work back up to where they were. Eliot can woo him. Fight for him. _Earn_ his love, this time. 

"How about a walk?" He asks.

His stomach lurches when Quentin nods. "A walk sounds good." 

**Author's Note:**

> Do not panic -- part two is called The Wooing. It's super cute and disgustingly fluffy.


End file.
